


Ninety Miles an Hour Down Oxford Street

by Princip1914



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale learned more than the gavotte at that club, Crowley is a little bit of a jealous bitch, Crowley torturing plants never gets old, Declarations Of Love, First Time, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Oscar Wilde - Freeform, Other, but he did wait for 6000 years so..., semi-explicit ethereal sex, william shakespeare - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 12:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19109245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princip1914/pseuds/Princip1914
Summary: Crowley is bad at talking about his feelings. Aziraphale is full of surprises. Alternatively, it takes 6000 years of pining to go on a proper date, but once they get there, only three weeks to fuck in the bookshop.





	Ninety Miles an Hour Down Oxford Street

**Author's Note:**

> This is my (second) take on the "Aziraphale finally catches up to Crowley" trope, because this show made me SOFT and I can't stay away. Also, I wanted to try writing Aziraphale as a little bit bolder, since there is already so much wonderful fic with adorably cautious, inexperienced Aziraphale. So this is what happened. Hopefully it doesn't come across as too out of character. Let me know what you think in the comments! Edited to say, I have a tumblr now, because I can't stay away: [Come say hi!](https://princip1914.tumblr.com)
> 
> ***Note: Although this fic is more explicit than my other fic, in keeping with my "size and shape are options" aesthetic, there's no mention of specific genitalia. They use male pronouns, but everything else is up you, dear reader. It's 2019 and gender is ineffable.

“I think we should do it,” Aziraphale says suddenly, apropos of nothing.

“What?” Crowley looks up from where he has been trying unsuccessful to instill fear in a pot of spider plants on Aziraphale’s desk for the past hour. He would be having an easier time of it he was sure if Aziraphale didn’t go around cooing to them every time he left. Just as well, then, that he was spending more and more time at the shop. Wouldn’t do to have Aziraphale’s plants misbehaving. 

“I’ve thought about it a lot,” Aziraphale says with a little waver in his voice that really makes Crowley sit up and take notice, “and I think it wouldn’t be a sin, all things considered. Not that it really matters now anyway, with heaven and hell ignoring us a bit.” 

“What wouldn’t be a sin?” Crowley asks, feeling like he somehow missed the first half of the conversation. 

“Sleeping with you, my dear,” Aziraphale says sweetly. 

“But you don’t even like sleep…” Crowley begins and then his brain catches up with his mouth. “Wait... _what!?_ ” 

“I thought we might like to try it out sometime, Crowley...err Crowley?” For the first time since starting this conversation, Aziraphale sounds uncertain. Crowley is gaping at Aziraphale mutely. It is only with great effort that he pulls himself together to form words. 

“What brought this on angel?” 

Now Aziraphale has the grace to turn a bit red. “I’ve thought about it on and off for oh, about a half century I suppose. But the end of the world has really put it into focus...er...as it were.” 

“Oh, I see,” Crowley bites, going for sardonic but probably missing it by miles. “World was ending, you were thinking about all the things you never got to try...visiting Florida, ice climbing, having sex...etcetera etcetera...I get it angel.” 

“Oh, I’ve tried sex before,” Aziraphale cuts in casually and it’s back to gaping for Crowley. 

“What! When?”

“Mostly the...er...the nineteenth century…” 

“While I was _asleep_ ” 

Aziraphale has the grace to look a little chagrined at that. “Yes, well, I was bored. You had decided not to _fraternize_ with me anymore. And all those gentlemen at the club were so lovely to me, it just seemed rude not to.” 

“It seemed rude not to? You had sex out of _politeness_ angel?” 

“It was rather nice, too, in a squishy human sort of way. And I helped further Great Art.” Aziraphale says defensively.

Deep in Crowley’s chest, the little spark of suspicion he’s always had about Aziraphale’s love of Oscar Wilde first editions blooms into a roaring bonfire. Aziraphale notices and correctly interprets the look on Crowley’s face because he blushes all the way down his neck and mutters something about William Shakespeare and glass houses. 

“Point.” Crowley considers. “But...I’m a demon. Tempting is kind of what I do. You’re...you’re not.” 

“Well, it certainly didn’t cause me to Fall” Aziraphale shrugs. “I think heaven is...rather neutral on the whole thing to be honest.” 

“Maybe with humans,” Crowley concedes. “But not with a demon. Not with...not with me.” His traitorously human heart is pounding in his chest so loudly he’s surprised Aziraphale can’t hear it. 

“Well, I think we told heaven--and hell---in no uncertain terms, to fuck right off, just a few weeks ago!” 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley gasps, shocked again for the third time today. He feels unpleasantly off balance. As a demon, he feels like he should be responsible for any shocking. Hell had even set up a course on it for other demons after receiving his memo about electricity in the early 1900s. 

“Oh Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims, standing up and wringing his hands. “Breathing space, you called it. But what even is the point of breathing space, if we don’t do anything with it?”

“We’ve been doing things with it,” Crowley says slowly. “We’ve been going to the Ritz and the park and---”

“We were doing that before, too, Crowley!” Aziraphale’s eyes are a little too bright and he’s out of breath. It would be a lie to say that Crowley was not completely and utterly transfixed. “We might as well be brave, Crowley, and admit it, at least to each other, even if that’s all we do.” 

Crowley takes a step back. Somehow, this conversation which began with him out of his depth has edged into a fast current he doesn’t quite understand, and now he is treading water in the open ocean, metaphorically speaking. His heart has stopped beating madly and now is trying to climb out of his mouth like a frog and he feels a stab of sympathy for those poor Egyptians during the second plague. Something else, words, are trying to climb out behind it and he savagely pushes them down, back to the place he’s been keeping them since at least the wretched 14th century. “I thought you asked me to sleep with you angel, not--”

“I want you to make love to me,” Aziraphale draws in a sharp breath and then adds on, belatedly and a little lamely, “dear.”

It’s the “dear” that does it. Crowley’s eyes are suddenly a bit wet under his sunglasses and he pushes them up to hide it, but Aziraphale gives him a look that says he knows. Oh, to Heaven- to Hell- to somewhere with all this! 

“Say it again,” Crowley implores, and he knows he sounds a little desperate, but he’s waited so very long. 

“I love you,” Aziraphale says simply and there is no thunderclap, no bolt of lightning from up above, the words don’t melt Crowley’s ears or cause Aziraphale’s tongue to burst into flame. Crowley’s a little bit astonished at the lack of divine retribution, and then even more astonished when he finds himself saying the words back. He claps a hand over his mouth. 

“I didn’t mean---”

“Yes, you did.” Aziraphale is smiling fondly, with his whole face, in the way Crowley will never be able to resist, so he says it again, and then again. 

“Come here,” Aziraphale says, holding out a hand and Crowley comes, allows his sunglasses to be removed, allows himself to be folded into an embrace that is some part human arm, but mostly wing. After all these years, Aziraphale’s feathers still smell like The Garden. Crowley takes a deep breath, and then another. Aziraphale is petting his head gently with one hand, and it should be humiliating but it’s not. “I’ve been a fool, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, “and a coward.” Crowley opens his mouth to deny it, but Aziraphale puts his fingers over his lips and isn’t that something, that spark that courses through Crowley’s corporation all of a sudden at the contact. “You’re just so much faster than me. Crowley, will you forgive me for taking until Armageddon to catch up?” 

Crowley huffs out a laugh against Aziraphale’s palm and pulls away a little. “Just a few minutes ago, I heard you proposition me in this very bookshop, angel. I haven’t even bought you flowers this century. Our first real date, if you can call it that, was only three weeks ago. And _I’m_ the one who goes too fast!?” 

“Oh, er…” Aziraphale folds his wings back to his sides. “I suppose we could slow down then?”

“Oh, for Earth’s sake, no,” Crowley says fervently and kisses Aziraphale for all he’s worth. Thousands of years of pent up desire and love--yes, love--he can think it now go into the kiss. It sets off sparks, quite literally, which dance along their lips before fizzling out in the air around them. Crowley kisses like he’s drowning, which perhaps in a way he is. When they pull apart, he rests his forehead against Aziraphale’s. They stand there, breathing each other’s air. 

“Wow,” Aziraphale says eventually. 

“Wow indeed,” Crowley says, and then with a smirk. “I bet Oscar never kissed you like that.” 

He’s going for lighthearted, but Aziraphale says with deepest sincerity, “Oh no, Crowley, never.” And Crowley thinks if he wasn’t already in love, he would fall in love all over again at the breathy, earnest way the angel says his name. 

“How do you want--” Crowley starts, but Aziraphale is already pushing him back against a pillar, moving a hand down between Crowley’s legs. The demon is surprised and pleased to find that this corporation has some ideas of its own and that he has been making an effort for some time now.

“Is this ok?” Aziraphale asks. “Even better than ok,” Crowley says tightly against his mouth, and then he is hissing in a most undignified way. It feels like forgetting where he starts and where Aziraphale ends. It has never been like this before, not with any humans, not ever. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley gasps.

“It’s all right love,” Aziraphale murmurs, and that word sets something loose in Crowley. He closes his eyes and sees the stars, really sees them, not in the euphemistic, vaguely metaphorical way that humans talk about their erotic experiences. He sees Alpha Centauri off in the distance, drifts among the many universes that might have been, and finds himself so exceptionally glad to be in this one. 

Later, he comes back to himself to find Aziraphale petting his wings, which he supposes must have emerged at some point, although he’s a bit hazy on when. Crowley stretches in several different dimensions, grins like the snake he is and says, “you know angel, I can do some _really clever_ things with my tongue.”


End file.
